


A Mama's Life

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [26]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Animal Death, Corpse Desecration, Gratuitous descriptions of nature, Mama is an endless pile of angst, Masturbation, Nature Is Beautiful, Needles, Other, POV Second Person, Rape, References to Torture, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Chapter 1 - IntroductionChapter 2 - Mama Foxter spends some quality time with Lazy. Bendy puts on a production of Bambi with the help of his friends and some unwitting forest animals.Chapter 3 - Lazy accidentally hurts Mama Foxter, but comes up with a brilliant way to help Mama feel better.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mama Foxter’s Week of Wonders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066856) by [Sp00py](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py). 



> I really love Mama Foxter being part of the nest, via Mama's Foxter's Week of Wonders. So, much like Education and Slice of a Happy Life, I've decided to toss together a collection of drabbles about his life in the nest. So far I only have one chapter planned apart from the prologue, but if other ideas drift to me, I'll add them to this collection.
> 
> Apart from Happy, all Snufkins and Joxters tend to be referred to only by their species name, but here’s the Main Three identified by their colloquial names:
> 
> Mama Foxter - Happy’s father; a good person, so far as Joxters go  
> Lazy Joxter - the worst Joxter; if there’s something horrible that can be done, he’s done it to a Snufkin. Has a great love for  
> arts and crafts  
> Happy - Mama’s son, a good boy, Bendy’s plaything, and very very broken

The nest is both strikingly beautiful and deeply unnerving. It’s settled in the hills overlooking the peaceful Moominvalley, and it’s like a festering sore upon a place so blissfully ignorant.

All through spring and summer, a canopy of impossibly white flowers sway hypnotically in the breeze. These draping bunches of flowers come back year after year, which leads you to believe they thrive with a bit of blood in the soil. In spring, their sweet scent is powerful enough to nearly drown out the reek of ink and blood. By summer, these three scents mix into one cloying stench that leaves you perpetually nauseous. Winter is sharp, brittle, and overwhelmed by the acerbic odor of ink.

Apart from the flowers, the Joxter has decorated the canopy of the nest with varied items. A fishing line is strung over the most well-worn path into the clearing. Too many stolen harmonicas hang from it, and when the wind blows just right, they whistle a forlorn cry. It makes you shiver, like they’re voices of ghosts that will never truly speak again. You think too much about those ghosts.

In the northwest corner of the clearing, there hangs a wind chime. It’s not like any wind chime you’ve ever seen before. There are six glinting sharp knives, some which have begun to rust from the rain. They dangle, point down, from lovingly twined wires, and they jangle together in the wind with a hollow noise that scrapes against your bones.

Below the flower canopy, and the harmonicas, and the knife wind chime, there lies a clearing whose floor has been worn to dirt. Monstrous claws have carved small trenches into the earth and into the trunks of trees, from events the Joxter describes as “scuffles” and you, mutely, consider to be one-sided mutilations. A neat ring of smooth stones encloses the fire pit, by which is often placed a cooking grate, some salt, and a pot and pan with stolen wood and silver cutlery. The eastern-most part of the clearing boasts of a flower-wreathed and moss-coated canoe, which has so long been a fixture of the clearing that nature seems to be claiming it again as its own. This canoe is filled with fluff eviscerated from Snufkin bedrolls, and is surrounded by numerous traveling packs. Each pack in your mind represents an individual, none that still live and breathe.

Everything here speaks to innocent life brutally taken. The atrocities you’ve seen here - there are no words to capture their horror. Never will you forget them, nor recover from them. Never will you get the chance.

The Joxter calls this place your home. It’s your prison. Your hell.

Aside from yourself, there are three other occupants of the nest.

The Joxter - it’s him you spend nearly all your time with, although not by choice. You despise him to your core. There is no regret in him. No conscience that makes sense to you. He loses not one wink of sleep over the evils he commits. His only occasional moral quandaries arise over the most arbitrary of issues, such as his distress over how Snufkin-ish you are for a Joxter, or for not politely greeting an individual he’s about to rape and murder. He insists upon manners and kills because it’s fun.

Regretfully, you have quickly become beloved in his eyes, maybe because you, being a Joxter, can better simulate a Joxter’s nest and company. Maybe because you are Happy’s father, and he finds that compelling, like he’s seeking perfect symmetry in the nest. Whatever it is, he’s as smitten as you are disgusted. You’re made to sleep in his canoe every night. You’re made to come along for foraging and Snufkin hunting. He uses your body, and compels you to abuse Snufkins as he does. Nowadays, you never sleep soundly, and eat only when forced. Being a Joxter himself, he knows ways to play you; it leaves you with boiling humiliation when his paws stroke skillfully over your whiskers and cheeks, melt and relax you into a numbing bliss.

He croons about how much you like it, and chides any protests to the contrary as if you’re a child who simply doesn’t know better. Truthfully, all the nest treats you like an ignorant child, like you simply don’t know how things are supposed to be. They are so insistent, so unison, that it’s maddening… that sometimes, you begin to believe.

The Joxter is dying - his worsening cough and spitting up of blood are indication enough - but as far as you’re concerned, he can’t die fast enough.

Apart from him, though, there’s Bendy. The demon. Everyone calls the nest the Joxter’s, and they generally defer to his orders and leadership, but in your eyes, this is the most pathetic of farces. Bendy can kill the Joxter in a heartbeat. It simply chooses not to because it enjoys this sick game it has created. It allows, even perpetuates, the absurd concept that one - the Joxter has any power over it whatsoever, and two - that it is at all capable of forming meaningful emotional connections. You know better.

It’s an immortal creature, something someone unwise might call a God, and it’s here merely to entertain itself. Everyone else in the nest only survives as long as it’s entertained.

Luckily, you see less of Bendy. It doesn’t like you, only tolerates you. This is for the best.

Happy is the fourth and final resident of the nest. He was once your son. Your greatest pride. The child you risked your own life for on several occasions: Once, in his youth. The other times, more recently. But you won’t. Not anymore. He isn’t the child you raised, nor the son you loved. Bendy and the Joxter scraped out his insides until he was hollow, and then filled him up with themselves. They broke him. Tortured him. Brainwashed him. Happy no longer knows right from wrong. He’s blisteringly obsessed with Bendy - in love with him, or so the Joxter claims.

He will do anything for the demon’s slightest attention and approval. He parrots the morals of his captors. He rapes and maims and kills alongside them. His personality is no longer his own, but rather a perverse helpless codependence that leaves him absolutely unable to function without the demon. It’s sick. It’s wrong. But you are far beyond trying to help. He can’t be saved.

Of course… neither can you. This is your life now. Your home, as the Joxter says. Your family. Your part in Bendy’s game.

You have no power over it.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning finds you gazing at Happy. In some part of your brain, it hurts to see him. Happy sits cross-legged by the fire pit, bent over a dirty pot. He’s trying to scrub it with an equally dirty rag, and his teeth are clenched in frustration. Or maybe pain. All his fingers have been broken at least once, and none were given the time or treatment needed to properly heal. It seems he and Bendy ‘played’ last night, also - fresh bloody rips mar the back of his cloak. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but you know it’s because he hasn’t slept properly in years.

He’s irredeemable now, you know that. Whether he was tortured into being this way or not (he was), the fact is that he now echoes the behavior and philosophies of his captors. He can’t be saved. You know that.

But your heart still knows that he was once a sweet boy, once your son, and when you see him struggling with such a mundane task, it hurts afresh.

Happy emits a swear. He wraps the cloth in his hand and doubles the effort. The Joxter is asleep beside you in the canoe; Bendy nowhere in sight. The morning is pink and wreathed in a light fog. Once upon a time, you would have taken this opportunity to escape. Grab Happy while the Joxter and Bendy are not paying attention and leave.

But you know now it wouldn't work. Furthermore, Happy wouldn't want to go. All thoughts of escape have long since fled you, apart from the thought that it’s impossible.

You could get up. Could help him, or start breakfast, or pretend for a second this is normal, this is the way a mumrik should live. Instead, you only stare, and hurt inside.

Happy drops the pot. Yanks on his hair and curses himself. Picks it back up.

You shift in the canoe. You will help him after all. His existence is miserable, his actions unforgivable, but if you could just make this one task easier for him -

You’re about to climb out of the canoe when a high-pitch accusing voice freezes you:

“Hey, Mama.”

Bendy’s next to the canoe, its eyes glittering and dark. You don’t know how long it’s been there. “Stop starin’ at my property.”

An “I’m sorry,” whooshes past your lips, instinctive.

Its tail lashes, but it keeps watching you as if it’s not sure you’re sorry enough or not.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” you add breathlessly. It’s best not to share that you were about to help Happy.

“I’m sorry what?” It grinds out.

You don’t breathe, trying frantically to decipher what it wants from you. “I’m sorry, Bendy,” you try.

A chilling smile flicks at its lips. “I forgive ya, Mama. Geez, lighten up! You’re scarin’ me with how tense ya are!” It punches your shoulder playfully. Then, chuckling at its joke, it moves past the canoe. You slump, heart thudding.

Bendy wanders to Happy. The two of them melt together in a slow tangle of limbs, with abundant nuzzling and petting. The pot and cloth are forgotten in the dirt, both filthier than when Happy had started. Happy falls backwards in slow motion. Gloved hands push Happy’s thighs apart. Bendy looks at you as it transforms.

You look away, jaw clenched. You wish it wouldn't fuck your son in front of you. You wish a lot of things, none that you will get. Slick noises and whimpers fill the clearing. Silently, you exit the canoe and begin walking. Bendy doesn’t try to stop you - it knows you would never run away.

You go to the lake. There are memories here that you can’t dwell on, but if you bury them deep enough, you can feel peace here. The water’s surface forms a perfect mirror of the blue-pink sky. On the far bank, gnarled tree roots dip into the surface. Here, alone, there is an ancient stillness. For a moment, you allow yourself to believe that no mumrik has laid eyes upon this place. That you are the first quiet traveler, and you will move on from this place without telling a soul. The trees, the reeds, the fish, the flies - they will all continue, knowing only tranquility.

You begin to hum a familiar lullaby.

“Bendy whistles that song.”

The Joxter. Your tune ends. You glance behind to find him standing there. It’s unnerving, how docile he can seem with lidded eyes, hands in his pockets, a smile at his lips.

He settles beside you and squeezes your thigh.

“I believe he learned it from Happy,” he takes his pipe out to say. “Would you hum it to him, to soothe him?”

You don’t answer.

“How lucky, to have known him as a child. To be his true father, even.”

“I was lucky.” Not for the sick reasons the Joxter insinuates. But raising Happy had been singularly the most rewarding - and tiring - thing you had ever done in your life. You thought you would never regret it. Now… you aren’t so sure. Maybe nothing was worth it in the end. It was a mistake to bring new life into this world.

“Here.” The Joxter gives his pipe to you. The stem tastes faintly of blood. Smoke drifts from your lips as you gaze, unfocused, over the lake.

When he leans against you, your skin crawls, but you don’t move. You feel helpless and yet restless. Angry and exhausted. You don’t know what to do. You’re paralyzed and yet pounding full of adrenaline.

His fingers twine around your whiskers. A “don’t” rises to your lips before you can stop it; the pipe falls to the ground and snuffs out.

His brow arches.

With a shiver, you stifle your protests, and complacently allow him to stimulate you. There’s no point in fighting him. You tried, many times, but he is as sadistic as he is lazy. He carries a knife under his cloak; more than once, that blade flashed silver and left a stinging wound before you could do a thing about it. Once, in a more determined time, you had resolved to die. You provoked them. You fought ferociously. You goaded them. That’s when you learned firsthand what it’s like to be tortured within an inch of your life and held there, suspended, like a purgatory of agony. When they finally allowed you to recover, one of the first things you became aware of was the Joxter’s malicious pale eyes.

“It’s futile, anyway,” he had told you. “Even if you did die. Don’t you know Bendy can bring people back to life?”

To this day, you don’t know if he was lying or not. You’re too scared to find out.

“You’re so distractible today,” the Joxter croons, “what are you thinking of?”

You hesitate. “Escape.”

He tilts his head to the side, feigning a naiveté he can’t possibly possess. “Escape what, dear?”

“This place.”

His regard passes over the scenic lake. “Why would anyone ever-“

“Stop.”

His attention is on you again. “Hm?”

You look away. “Stop playing that game.”

“You would be so much happier if you accepted what you are.” His hands have stilled now, resting in his own lap.

“I am a Joxter.”

“Why will you not behave as one?”

Right. His morbid philosophy that Joxters are all predators, meant to hunt down and hurt Snufkins. Although it is a common trait, it is clearly not universal. You may be odd, but you are still a Joxter. “I do,” you protest weakly.

“You could be very happy here, if you were not so stubborn.” It shocks you that, for once, he is not assuming a teasing tone. His eyes are sincere, nearly pleading. It’s like he wants you to be happy, like he cares for your wellbeing, but he is so abysmally blind to the truth:

“I could never be happy here.”

He sighs. One paw returns to your whiskers, the other between your legs. The sensations his paws inspire disgust you. It’s been months since you were voluntarily aroused. Some part of you is terrifyingly certain you’re becoming used to this. His hands, touch, eyes, smile. These are familiar things, and sometimes the sight of him alone, despite your hatred, is enough for your body to tingle with inchoate arousal, much in the way it once had with Snufkins.

(Now the sight of Snufkins makes your stomach sour, because you know what will happen to them-)

“There you go,” he purrs, “just relax, my sweetest love.” He looks at you, indeed, like the most enraptured lover, but his mind is rotten. You don’t understand his sick perception of love. But your thoughts are becoming harder to focus on. You shift. Your thighs tense; your breath comes short.

He purrs, “yes, just let it happen. I know you need release… I’ll take care of you.”

You hate that his voice, too, under the right circumstances, can be stimulating. The effect is ruined when, just as your climax ripples through you, he dissolves into a hacking fit and splatters blood over your front.

“Dear me,” he says, and pulls sticky fingers away.

As you come down from the bliss, you’re left feeling worse than before. All you want is a long dreamless nap, alone. You know he won’t afford you that luxury.

“Now you’ll return the favor, won’t you?” He says, sickly sweet, but it’s no question. Already he’s situating himself between your legs.

“Do try to keep your hips tilted up this time,” he encourages, tugging your trousers down. “It’s frustrating, making do with some of the angles you expect me to work with.”

You tune him out, and simply adjust your body according to his demands. He’s thick and painful. Your fingers clench in the grass while you gaze up at the sky. Slowly, the sky is becoming a richer and richer blue. For a bit, there’s only soft grunts and from you, winces. You prefer this to be painful. You deserve this, anyway.

You’re not even sure why you do. Maybe because you shouldn't have had Happy, or shouldn't have left him alone. Maybe because you shouldn't have followed his scent, or entered this nest. Maybe because you should have tried harder to save him, or maybe should keep trying instead of giving up. But you know, truly, there was and is nothing you can do. No matter how much you try, Happy can’t be fixed, and neither of you can escape. Moreover, you had no way of knowing what the future would hold when you raised Happy. You had only done whatever your best judgement dictated. In the grand scheme of things, this is a game, a story, run by someone else, by Bendy, and you have only ever been a pawn.

By this logic, you’re blameless. That doesn’t stop you from savagely thinking _I deserve this, and much worse_ while the Joxter uses you. The intensity of the thought wearies you. He finishes inside, and then melts, huffing. A few more coughs dribble blood on your shirt, but you’re already dozing, eyes slipping shut….

 

 

Sometime later you wake, hungry, thirsty, sore. He’s slipped out of you during the nap, leaving you feeling empty and wet. Slowly you rouse, and your motions wake him.

“Hm?” He blinks half-lidded eyes, and rightens his crooked hat. “Ah, we went and slept away the morning,” he says like it’s a fortunate discovery. “Shall we get some berries?”

The coolness of morning has been burned away by the sun. You're grateful to retreat into the shade of the trees, though when you descend into a deeper thicket, it’s humid and smells richly of sweet berries. The two of you prick your fingers on thorns and stain them with berry juice. You swat away gnats as you progress from bush to bush, finding the ripest plumpest berries, until you had to have eaten a hundred. Sweat by this point is soaking your hair and dripping down the back of your neck, but you don’t mind. For a moment, away from the nest, or the lake, or anywhere else with bad memories attached, you feel… not normal, but marginally better. Not relaxed, but not as tense, either. Such a feeling can never last.

The Joxter wanders back, teeth blue with berry juice. “You’ve made a mess of yourself.” He takes your fingers into his mouth and suckles them clean with a saccharine tenderness.

Your peace dies with quiet resignation.

Paw in paw, the two of you wander to the creek, where you rinse your paws and groom your face and whiskers. Thus tidied, you sip water and fill your canteens.

Next the Joxter journeys to check the bunny traps which he has scattered through the forest. You follow, because you aren’t sure what else to do. It occurs to you that if you don’t do anything, this will be the rest of your life. As always, that inspires a tense, restless feeling. You must do something. You must act. **_Now_**!

The Joxter leans over a trap, hums thoughtfully. Fiddles with its metal hooks. “These have hardly caught anything.”

“Not very useful,” you agree.

You do nothing.

The Joxter pads off towards the next trap with you at his heels.

You do nothing. You do nothing. You do nothing. Your panic feels strangled. Your limbs useless. You’re anxious to no end, but can’t do _anything_ about it.

He checks the last trap, shakes his head. “Perhaps Bendy will catch a - hrk-“ another coughing fit leaves blood spattered over his paws.

“It’s killing you.” The words slip out before you can stop them.

The Joxter levels his gaze at you. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Bendy. It’s killing you.”

The Joxter laughs, then coughs.

“You’re sick because of it.”

“We’ve been over this, Mama.” The Joxter wipes his lips clean. “Bendy is a he. How hard is it to get that correct?”

“It’s not anything but a monster.” Your fists clench and unclench in restless energy. “I don’t know why you-“

“ _He_.” the Joxter interjects dangerously. “ _He’s_ not anything but a monster. Don’t be rude, Mama Foxter.”

“That’s not my name. If you weren’t so oblivious, you'd see that you need to escape, too. You’re a captive just as much as I am.” The Joxter is a foul monster himself, so your words don’t come from a place of concern. Maybe you think convincing him to leave will earn your own freedom. Maybe your death. Both are better than the present.

“Neither of us are captives,” he answers.

“If you really believe that-“

“You’re being very puzzling, Mama. Getting so worked up over nothing.”

“Let’s run away. Together.” A twist in your gut, even after all this time, reminds you that that would mean abandoning your son. Giving up on him entirely. You’d never forgive yourself for that. But there is nothing left to save there. And without Bendy around, you’re sure you could kill the Joxter. (Before, you couldn't bear the thought of killing, but he has made you murder Snufkins in the most awful of ways. You’re adapting.)

“We are together,” he replies.

“Just the two of us.”

“Well, if we’re going to run away, we must invite Bendy. Naturally, that means Happy will come along too - it’s cruel to separate them.”

“No. Just the two of us. Joxters.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“We can start a nest of our own. Find other Joxters like - like us.”

A slow, evil smile breaks across his face. “You want me to leave Bendy.”

You bite your tongue. He spends so much time dodging around straightforward statements that it almost scares you more when he gets right to the heart of a matter.

He takes your paw. Fingers caress your palm. “I love you dearly, Foxter. But no number of Joxters can ever replace Bendy.”

“You wanted me,” you say impulsively. “Bendy wasn’t enough. You wanted a Joxter.”

“And now I have you.”

“But-“

He squeezes your paw hard enough to hurt. “Let’s sit. Let me tell you about my friendship with him.”

He steers you down amongst the weeds and underbrush. His fingers lace with yours. As always, you’re overly aware that his paws have murdered Snufkins. Yours have now too, and you’re scared to think about it.

“You must know how unique he is,” the Joxter says.

There’s no debating that. “A nest of Joxters,” you begin weakly.

“Mama.”

You fall silent.

“You’ve seen the way he kills.” There’s rapture in his voice. Awe.

You nod stiffly. He sighs something close to a moan. “Lovely, to have such an agreeable and like-minded fellow as a friend.”

You suppose he had more points to make. Maybe he even had some well-crafted argument about why he won’t leave Bendy. But he begins to palm himself through his pants and you figure his argument has now dissolved.

Sure enough, he rubs himself to a climax while you sit and wait. Once he’s slumped against you and his panting has evened out, he murmurs,

“I suppose you’re disappointed in me.”

You actually hate him and want him dead, so you don’t know where he got that idea from.

“You’re a clever Joxter,” he continues, “a deep, thoughtful one. Usually so.”

“Nh.”

“You must think that the friendship between Bendy and I is shallow… hm, lacking fiber, so to speak.” He coughs. “That our greatest connection is our equal love for Snufkins.” He rouses a bit. “Although I disagree about that, you may be right that I am not particularly clever or deep like you are. But that is how we’re different - you see, I know I’m a simple creature. Because I know this, I’m content. You, however, are complicated. You think too much. This is why you’re unhappy.”

You’d be astonished over how thoroughly he manages to derail the conversation, if you weren’t so used to it. There was no point trying to talk to him.

“You must be jealous,” the Joxter concludes, standing. “You wish you had a friendship like Bendy and I’s. I understand.”

You hate him so, so much.

“Maybe one day you will,” the Joxter muses. “But for now, we must live every day as it arrives, and we have only the moment.” He takes your hand, and you allow it, no matter how much you’d like to rip away and never touch him again. “Let’s return to the nest.”

 

Long before you reach the clearing, your nose picks up the stench of death. Dread fills you. You spend several moments in solemn silence, quietly panicking at the prospect of there being another Snufkin in the nest, one already maimed and murdered. At least its suffering would have been short…

The two of you are nearly upon the nest before the Joxter finally notices the smell and he goes, “Oh! I wonder what those two are up to.” He’s excited.

You’re not sure you want to find out. When you finally come upon the clearing, you’re not sure you even understand.

There’s the body of a buck sprawled at one end of the clearing. Near it, a mangled ball of fluff that you think was once a rabbit. Bendy and Happy are sitting some ways off, hunched conspiratorially together, with Bendy’s tail wrapped around Happy’s back.

As relieved as you are that it’s not a Snufkin, you’re still confused about what’s going on.

“Hullo,” the Joxter greets from a distance.

You’ve learned in your stay here something bizarre about Bendy: all its physical senses apart from touch are rather weak. This means it’s absurdly simple to sneak up on the monster, and it’s prone to being startled. To avoid unwanted startle reactions, the Joxter (and you learned to do this, too) tends to announce himself a safe distance away.

Bendy lifts his head, and a smile spreads across his face. “Hiya, Jox, Mama!”

Happy looks up as well - he too, is smiling, but his face is twisted in a rictus of pain.

Instinctively, your heart thuds with agony. You know he’s beyond saving, but that doesn’t make it hurt much less.

“What are the two of you up to?” The Joxter asks.

“Bendy’s sticking needles in my paws,” Happy giggles, and lifts his paws demonstratively.

You wince and look away, but the single glimpse gave you an idea enough about how his paws now look like pincushions.

“A nice bonding activity,” the Joxter remarks. “But I was more curious about the deer and the rabbit, you see. Are those for dinner?”

Bendy glances behind it, as if it had forgotten about the animal corpses in the clearing. “Oh nah, those are gonna be puppets. But I guess I only need the heads, so if ya wanna make somethin’ outta the bodies, that’s a-okay!”

“Puppets?” You echo.

Bendy looks your way; you wish you had said nothing. “Sure thing, Mama.”

“We’re making a _moo_ - _vee_ ,” Happy continues, “It’s called Bandi. It’s about-“

“ _Bambi_ ,” Bendy interjects.

“Bambi,” Happy corrects. “It’s about a deer, and his mama dies, and he has a friend that’s a rabbit.”

“You know,” Bendy says, staring at you as if it expects you to understand. “It’s Bambi.”

“Of course,” the Joxter says as he meanders over to the dead animals, knife in hand. “Bambi.”

“Everyone loves Bambi,” Bendy adds.

It’s like something has possessed everyone in the clearing. You have no idea what a moo-vee is, much less what a Bambi is. Bendy is full of references and quotes from things you don’t understand - things that come from another world entirely. Everyone else just seems to play along. But the demon is intently watching you as if expecting an answer.

“Yes,” you reply hollowly, “Bambi.” You wonder if you’re not becoming like the Joxter, simply agreeing without understanding. Only he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Also Bambi meets a doe and they mate,” Happy continues, “and they have a friend named Flower, except he’s a skunk, and we couldn't find a skunk-“

“Did Bendy tell you all this?” You ask resignedly.

Happy nods. “Oh yes! He told me about moo-vees, too.”

“We were makin’ props an’ characters-“ Bendy waves a hand dismissively at the dead deer, which the Joxter is now carving up for meat. “But then Happy got some sewing stuff, an, well…” Its fingers brush lightly over the needles sticking from Happy’s paws; Happy winces, and so do you. “I got distracted,” it finishes. Its tail squeezes tighter around Happy.

“How creative,” the Joxter remarks, casting aside flaps of skin and digging into the meat. “I would love to see the moo-vee. Hm, you said four characters, right? The deer, the deer’s mother, the skunk, the rabbit?”

Bendy shrugs. “Well, there’s really more. Can’t expect Happy to remember all the details.”

“Hmmhm.”

“I’m gonna be Bambi,” Bendy asserts. “Happy’s Faline, my mate, but he’s also gonna play Thumper - that’s the rabbit.”

“I truly adore the finer arts of the world,” the Joxter comments. “If it isn’t too difficult of a role, I’d love to be the skunk. Flower, you said?”

“Mhm!”

“I’ll prepare for the role once we have our meat safely salted and stored.” The Joxter tosses a look over his shoulder. “It sounds like there’s a need for the deer’s mother, too.”

“Yeah.” Bendy grins jaggedly at you. “I figured Mama Foxter would be a great Mama Deer.”

You would protest, but you sense that you aren’t being given a choice. “Please let me tend to Happy’s paws,” you say instead.

Bendy’s eyes narrow.

“He won’t be good for playing any role with his paws like that,” you justify weakly, tired of the familiar fear that clenches tight around your lungs. Bendy doesn’t trust you or particularly like you. With how possessive he is over Happy, it’s more risky than it’s truly worth, asking to tend to Happy. But apparently today you’re sentimental: remembering more what Happy was than what he is. Wishing pointlessly that there’s any part of your son left that you could comfort.

“I’ll take care of him,” Bendy replies, in a tone that tells you you shouldn't argue or you might end up dead.

“Yes,” you agree quietly.

Happy touches the demon lightly on its horns, drawing its attention away. “Bendy, there’s still two more needles you haven’t used. Do you wanna stick them in my paws?”

With a noise of delight, the demon takes the proffered needles. It cradles Happy’s paws, readies the needles -

You look away. Happy gasps sharply, whimpers. Despite the pain, he crowds closer to Bendy, as if he just can’t get close enough.

“The last one,” he giggles softly. “Will you stick the last one in, Bendy? Please, get it in as deep as you want.”

“Think we can make it all the way through your palm?”

Happy is breathless. “I hope so. Whatever makes you happy, Bendy.”

You wish you couldn't hear them. You forcefully try to ignore them while you beeline to the Joxter. He enlists your help in field dressing and quartering the deer - the rabbit is deemed unfit for eating, as teeth have punctured through its gastrointestinal tract in many locations, and ink oozes from the bloody holes in the muscle. Some of the deer meat is thrown out for the same reason. All the meat is rinsed, rubbed with salt, cooked, and finally packaged into a series of lard-filled jars which the Joxter keeps handy. Finally, these sealed jars are stored in a deep cool burrow under the roots of an old oak.

This task takes you and the Joxter the remainder of the day - throughout most of that time, you try to ignore Bendy and Happy as the two cuddle, and murmur to each other, and Happy occasionally whimpers, whines or laughs. They do strange things with the animal bodies that you try not to think about.

They finally detach come evening. Happy’s paws have been bandaged; although you worry, you also assume Bendy knows a thing or two about wound treatment by now, because Happy hasn’t been killed yet and his care has largely been in Bendy’s hands. Sometimes you feel it’s miracle he’s still alive.

“Has he eaten?” You dare to ask.

Bendy glares. “I was just getting him food, geez, Mama.”

You suspect it wasn’t actually doing that, but now Bendy unburies one of the jars and the slice of venison within is split between all mumriks. The Joxter throws in some cattails he harvested the day before, canned beans he stole from the Moominhouse, and some powdered milk.

You’ve dined with them a thousand times now, but you'll never get used to it. You'll never get used to their casual banter, their conversations which weave from something as simple as a new bird the Joxter glimpsed, to a rambling admiration of how lovely Snufkins look with their insides torn out. This dichotomy endless jars you - it makes you feel like your mind is fracturing. For part of the dinner, you stare at Bendy, because as much as you've seen it, you still can’t wrap your mind around its existence.

You’re grateful when the meal is over and you’re given the task of washing dishes. It’s a thoughtless task that you lose yourself in.

By the time you’re done, the forest has gotten dark. The moon casts ominous white light upon the clearing, and the softly swaying flowers make eerie shadows upon the forest floor.

“Let’s perform Bambi!” Bendy decides. “Happy an’ I got all the props ready.”

“I’m Flower, remember,” the Joxter says, as he attempts to tuck as many flowers into his hair and cloak and collar as possible. “Shall I get comfortable in a bed of flowers?”

“Way to get into the role, Jox.”

The Joxter happily curls up in a nearby bed of wildflowers - you don’t think Bendy notices or particularly cares, but he then falls asleep while Bendy prepares the costumes.

Happy puts on a new green cloak - you feel sick when you realize that they have sewn the dead rabbit’s bloodied tail to it, and Happy wiggles his butt obediently when prompted.

“His name’s Thumper,” Bendy emphasizes, “so you gotta like, yanno-“ Bendy stomps his feet repeatedly on the ground, and then so too does Happy, and you’re staring at both of them wondering how this sort of madness can exist.

Bendy jams the antlers of the buck into his own skull and grins while ink trickles down his face. He can’t feel pain, you’ve surmised before, nor hunger, thirst, exhaustion. “Now I’m Bambi,” he says happily. “Your turn, Mama.”

Happy reveals a headband they had constructed, which is made of thick vines. Two floppy bloody deer ears have been tied messily onto the vines.

“I - I don’t need to wear that,” you object.

“You’re my Deer Mama,” Bendy says. “You’re gonna wear it, or I’ll make ya.”

The thing with Bendy is that there are no choices. It always gets what it wants in the end. So you put on the headband, shivering under the demon’s intent stare. The deer ears hang heavily over your own ears, and flop stupidly every time you turn your head. “Ya look great!” He pats your hip; you flinch.

Under the silvery moon, this stupid farce of a play unfolds. Nobody apart from Bendy knows what lines they should say, nor what happens next. But the three of you, dressed in dead animal parts, gyrate in the shadows of the forest, following some plot line that Bendy knows by heart, but nobody else here has ever heard of.

You play Bambi’s mother, whatever that means, until Bendy tells you you’re dead, and then you’re a rival buck, and then an owl -

You lose track of your roles or what any of them mean. Happy laughs through the whole production, and stomps his feet whenever Bendy bids, and paws at the air with his bandaged limbs.

For a moment, dizzyingly dragged from scene to scene and character to character, you think you lose your own mind. You stop thinking. You laugh yourself, once or twice. There’s a buzzing emptiness in your head. It doesn’t matter that you’re wearing the ears of a dead deer. It doesn’t matter that you’re acting out scenes with a demon and your tortured, mad son. It simply is. Like the pages of a story flipping by, a story that you have little real investment in anymore.

You wish that emptiness would stay. But it's fleeting. By the time dawn breaks, you're curled in a corner of the nest, sobbing pointlessly and futilely, your dead deer ears crooked on your head. No mumrik can withstand this madness long, and you're scared what will become of you.

Perhaps, though, you're more scared of what has already become of you.


	3. Chapter 3

The summer is boiling hot. You hardly have the energy to breathe, much less move. Through most days, you doze in the canoe beside the Joxter, but his body radiates heat, and you feel sick to your stomach with the stench and humidity. The staggering temperatures have the Joxter in a foul mood, too - during the day, he’s prone to kicking and striking you, grouching about how you’re taking up so much space, how you’re too hot, too crowding. It would be nice if he just got so sick of you that he decided to kill you, but you doubt you’d be allowed such a mercy. As it is, he leaves you with bruises across your face and arms. Sometimes he hits you hard enough that you go dizzy.

One blistering afternoon he lashes out with a knife instead of his fists. It leaves two sharp slices across your cheek.

While you gasp and cower (there’s little else to do), you meet his fiery expression. 

“You’re taking up all the space; don’t you have any manners?” He snaps. 

You mumble an apology, touching below your new wounds and painting your fingertips with blood. 

Grumbling, he shuts his eyes again.

As the day progresses, sweat slithers into the wounds and makes them burn afresh. You pant. Do your best to remain crammed in one corner of the canoe, giving the Joxter plenty of space lest he choose to attack again. He’s unpredictable on the best of days, downright moody and vindictive otherwise.

You doze. Your dreams are fragments of reality, blood-soaked and terror stricken. Nowadays, you don’t dream of freedom. You dream of rivers pulled from open veins. You dream of the Joxter’s wicked grin. You dream of Happy, soft and young and smiling, as he pulls you into a hug. But once your arms are around him, he changes, twists, ink slithering up his body, flowing over him like a second skin as he shakes with laughter. The thing in your arms is your own spawn but you wish you never-

Again and again you jerk awake, chest heaving. Instinctively your eyes hunt through the nest as if to make sure neither your son nor the monster that keeps him are near. There’s never any sign of them. They are often gone for long tracts of the day and night, doing things you don’t want to imagine. 

Your eyes next blink open when the forest is dark, the sky purple. Your head feels clearer, though your cheek still stings with your newest wounds. It is, blessedly, cooler. Fresher. You begin to stir, thinking that you’d like a walk, like to get away, just for a time.

But your motions rouse the Joxter, who yawns wide and shows off his sharp canines. 

His lidded eyes settle upon you. His content expression transforms into dismay. He croons, “oh, no, my love…” His paw reaches for your cheek - you flinch but he makes contact, tracing the scabbed line of the wounds he had given you. “I’m truly a monster,” he says with the most heartfelt regret you’ve ever heard him utter. 

Your lip twists in disgust. He is a monster, but not for the reason he’s implying. 

“Foxter, you must forgive me…” he sidles closer. “I acted out in rage, and with the summer heat…” he shakes his head. “What shall I do to make you feel better?”

“Leave me alone,” you dare to say, but you don’t dare to hope. 

His laugh is both expected and dreaded. “Joxters aren’t meant to be alone.”

“It’s my one wish.”

“Then you are a funny Joxter indeed!” He pats your shoulder. “Come now, what do you truly want? I absolutely must make it up to you.”

He seems genuinely interested in doing something for you. But he would never oblige anything you actually wanted. He’s probably searching for something frivolous, like a certain type of flower. Something he would probably like. 

“You could let Happy go,” you say dully. You don’t know why you say anything anymore, except for the fact the Joxter doesn’t try to kill you for saying things like that, and freedom to speak your mind (to some extent) is the only right you’ve got left.

“Let Happy go!” The Joxter gasps. “Foxter, you’re quite daring today. Just for you, I’d be willing to make some sort of compromise. But I’ve told you before-“

“Happy isn’t yours,” you interject, not wanting to hear it again.

“Precisely. Anyway, isn’t he lovely to have around the nest? A pity he can’t be used by Joxters such as us, but he truly adds to the atmosphere, don’t you think?”

You regret ever opening your mouth. You don’t want to hear this. 

“Not to mention the joy of getting to see him make love with Bendy,” the Joxter adds. “It isn’t just anywhere you can see a thing such as that!”

“Yeah.” 

“Truly, you should be glad for your son. Bendy can be quite talented when he wants to be.”

“Nh.” You’re never going to be _glad_ for what your son has become.

The Joxter blinks, and his expression transforms as if he has just stumbled upon a revelation. “In fact,” he says excitedly, “I think I know just the thing to help you feel better!”

“I feel fine.” Better than to accept whatever horrible idea he’s got. “Really, fine.”

He continues on, “You see, I will readily admit I’m a selfish lover. This is something I can’t deny. As dearly as I love you, Mama, once I get going, I am truly negligent of your needs.”

This is disgusting and furthermore, horribly inaccurate. He pays altogether too much attention to your ‘needs’ when you fuck. 

“But _Bendy_ ,” the Joxter emphasizes undeterred, “now, he’s quite selfless!”

Your eyes drag up to meet his. He can’t be implying…

The Joxter smiles. “Perhaps you’d like to make love with him?”

It takes you a good few seconds to realize that the Joxter is completely serious. Then it takes more time for your tongue and lips to cooperate in a way that phrases a stuttering, “n-no, Joxter -“ it’s meant as a refusal and you had words to follow it, but you’re having trouble speaking and he resumes,

“Oh, it’s quite an experience. Nothing better to improve your night! Where is that devil anyhow?”

You gag on spit and spend a few moments trying to recover while the Joxter pats your back.

“Dear me, Foxter, don’t keel over and die. He must be out gallivanting with Happy again. But when he returns, I’ll ask if he’s willing to play with you.”

“It-it’s -“ you choke on air some. You can’t fathom the idea of… you’ve seen that thing with your son, and with the Joxter, but - it hates you; you never imagined… “ _He_ ,” you grind out, “isn’t fond of me, Joxter… I - I wouldn’t want to ah, make _him_ do something _he_ doesn’t want to-“ You’re grasping at straws and you know it.

“Oh, nobody can make Bendy do something he doesn’t want to do,” the Joxter replies casually. “But it’s certainly worth asking him, don’t you think?”

You’re shaking your head before you consciously decide to. 

The Joxter settles back in the canoe, smiling docilely. “Yes, it’s a perfect solution. Surely you’ll forgive me for hurting you then. I am dearly sorry.”

“I forgive you,” you say swiftly. “You’re already forgiven.”

“You’ve always had a generous heart, love.”

“You don’t need to do anything else. It’s fine. I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Of course. What do you say we get some food?”

“I forgive you.”

“I heard you, Mama: no need to be so repetitive.”

You gaze at him helplessly, certain he hasn’t changed his mind about Bendy - Bendy and - Your stomach churns at the thought. Bendy and _you._ “W-we don’t have to ask Bendy,” you plead, lowly. “I just - I want to be with you - um, only you. And I forgive you.” Groveling is terrible but there are worse things. At least the Joxter is familiar.

“It’s sweet you adore me so.”

You could have screamed out of frustration. So so many times now you have pushed down your emotions, smothered them for the sake of trying to rationalize or to survive. You always heard this was bad to do, as emotions might explode. For you, though… for you, it seems they keep getting pushed down until they transform until nothing but exhaustion. Until they die, tiny and crammed inside you. All while your body does nothing. So for one second here, emotions flare in your chest hot and furious and you want to yell and fight - just _do something_. Then, they deflate. They die. You wilt back into the canoe, silent and beaten. 

You’re tired, despite having just woken up. 

“I adore you, too,” he says. 

“Yes.”

“Let’s get some food.”

“I’m not hungry. I want to go back to sleep.”

He could very well make you, but he nods and pats your head. “I will bring something back for you, love.” Then he hops over the canoe and disappears into the heavily shadowed woods. You hope he gets lost. You hope he comes across some beast and gets mauled. You hope he dies. 

None of those things happen. He returns very shortly, bearing morel mushrooms. “A lucky find, no?”

He hands you some. Everything tastes like paper and ink. 

The evening grows long and dark. The Joxter lights lanterns about the nest and illuminates everything in hazy yellow. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

It’s spooky more than pretty, but you hardly care. You live with monsters. Nothing lurking in the dark, apart from them, can really bother you. The Joxter stretches, yawns, then rummages around in a Snufkin pack, eventually pulling out a little paperback book. You can’t fathom what sort of stories might interest him, but lately he’s taken to reading. He wanders over to a lantern and settles himself beside it, tilting the book nearer to catch the light on the page. 

This leaves you with nothing but your anxiousness. You pace, for a time. The night darkens further until the lantern light is but a halo against an infinite, empty void. A feverish thought wanders in that there is nothing beyond the light. That you and the Joxter are floating on the only island of reality, in a cavern of ink and darkness.

When you linger too long on that thought, you can almost swear you feel the ground pitch and sway. You collapse, wrap your arms around your knees. Every once in a while, there’s the soft turning of a page.

Things are timeliness. 

Then, your nose twitches. There’s a caustic smell. A familiar one. Dread percolates in your chest. Bendy. And beneath its smell, Happy’s. They’re returning. 

You glance at the Joxter, praying he has forgotten his earlier proposition. He hasn’t moved - you forget, consistently, that his sense of smell is not as keen as yours. Next there is only to wait. 

Soon, feet crash messily through underbrush, far louder than your son would normally tread. 

“Please, please,” Happy’s reedy voice reaches faintly through the darkness, like the voice of a disembodied spirit.

The Joxter raises his head. “Oh, are they back?”

It’s black as pitch outside the lanterns. You can see nothing, but Happy abruptly screams. There’s a heavy _thud_ , a low snarl. Whimpers. 

Your heart twists in spite of you. 

You like to think you’re detached from your son. Because you know he can’t be helped. Because you know he isn’t yours. But when he sounds like this - you ache to find him, hold him. But it would do him no good. Not anymore.

Next there’s laughter. Unhinged, hoarse. 

Then Happy stumbles out of the dark and into the halo of the lanterns, pale as a ghost, his eyes dark sleepless hollows. He’s grinning ear to ear. 

“Happy,” the Joxter greets. “Hullo, dear.”

You can’t find it in yourself to greet him.

Happy laughs like he’s breaking. You know he’s already broken. 

“Did Bendy not let you sleep again?” The Joxter asks, as if it’s a sane thing to ask.

Happy presses his palms to his lips, and shakes his head, eyes crinkled at the corners in a big smile. “We were playing hide and seek,” he whispers to his palms. “And then tag. He said I don’t need sleep.”

“How delightful,” the Joxter remarks, while several gigantic clawed hands ooze out of the darkness behind Happy. They stretch out wider and wider while Happy sways in place, unaware. 

A warning rises at your lips, but it’s too late - the numerous hands clamp down on Happy. He screams again. Once the initial shock wears off, he devolves into hysterical laughter. “H-he keeps getting me,” Happy giggles, his eyes rolling wildly like a deer. “K-keeps getting me.”

“I’m glad he’s keeping you well exercised,” the Joxter replies. 

You have trouble tearing your gaze from Happy, disgust and pity and despair all twisting in your stomach, while the ink hands dissolve like flesh soaked in acid. They drape around Happy, twine amorphously and cling to him. Much of it is oozing between Happy’s legs, undulating softly - finally, you look away, and wish you could drown out Happy’s breathy noises. 

“Oh, say,” the Joxter interrupts, “before you have your fun with Happy, I was wondering if you wouldn't like to first help out Mama Foxter?”

You freeze. Your eyes jerk to the Joxter. “N-no,” bubbles up from your lips involuntarily. Bendy wouldn’t agree. It wouldn’t like that, surely. It wants nothing to do with you. 

Ink seeps off Happy (who looks disappointed), and reforms into Bendy’s small shape. “You want me to get him off?” Disdain reeks through the words.

“It’s really not necessary-“ you stutter.

“Precisely. Just a simple climax. You see, I was unkind enough to hurt him earlier and I’d say he deserves something nice.”

Bendy looks at you, and your words die. A single glance makes you feel like prey. It’s not a mumrik, it’s not even really a person. It’s… soulless, dangerous, _wrong_. It can twist people. Can ruin them. You might already be ruined, but you don’t want that monster anywhere near you. Especially not on the heels of it touching your son like that.

“I know you don’t care for him overly much, darling,” the Joxter continues to Bendy. “I understand it’s a bit of an inconvenience. But surely you can tolerate him for just a few moments? I promise: with the right stimulation, he doesn’t last long at all.”

“Sex?” Bendy directs his attention to the Joxter. “Or my hand? Or mouth?”

The Joxter hums thoughtfully. “Sex can be overwhelming. Why not use your mouth? If you have no preference either which way.”

“N-neither - none of them-“ You look frantically between them. They’re deciding what way you’re going to be raped by a demon, like they’re ordering a pleasant dinner, and you’re sitting there watching it happen like it’s _normal_. 

Bendy shrugs and detaches from Happy. “Arrighty.”

“No, wait - you really don’t need to do this-“

“Wait…” Happy totters after Bendy, looking worried. It’s his voice, not yours, that stops the demon.

“What? Geez Happy, don’t look so _un_ Happy - it’s just suckin’ off your Mama.”

You hope, stupidly, that Happy might say something to dissuade Bendy from doing this. Instead, he knots his fingers together shyly and murmurs, “I miss you. I wanna be close to you.” Happy doesn’t care an ounce about you. He just wanted to be close to Bendy. Of course. 

Bendy’s tail curls up at the tip in a gesture you’ve come to recognize as pleasure. “Well gee, Happy. How ‘bout this? You sit next t’me and pet my tail, mmkay? That way yer makin’ me feel good _and_ yer close to me.”

“How sweet,” the Joxter coughs. 

Happy squirms in place. “Yes, Bendy.”

“Hold on-“ you look at the Joxter, as if he would do anything to intervene. He squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “Bendy’s quite good with his mouth. You’ll enjoy yourself, in the end.”

“Um.” You don’t believe you can escape, and you don’t believe you can run, but for some reason, you begin to back up. 

“Where are you going, dear?” The Joxter asks. 

Your mouth opens. You say nothing. You laugh hoarsely. Your eyes dart. Where are you going. Where _are_ you going. “Um.”

“No need to be shy,” he coaxes. “Come sit down.”

“Um.” Numbly you start wandering to the edge of the lantern light. Past that is pitch darkness. But you know it’s not Bendy. This darkness is not so evil. “I’m just um - going for a walk-“

The Joxter’s laugh rings out when chilly ink snares your ankles and yanks your feet out from under you. You hit the dirt hard and whimper, half-curling up. Even if it’s futile, you expected that you would thrash and struggle and scream through every moment of this. Maybe you would feel better about yourself if you did. But the strength of that icy ink flows up your calves, up your thighs, and you do nothing but pant. It’s not that you’re not scared. You’re terrified. You’re disgusted. You want nothing to do with this at all. But you can’t move. You’re just… frozen. Petrified. The ink effortlessly flips you around, until you’re sitting on your butt with your legs spread. You screw your eyes shut, as if not looking will help you be any less despicable. Your arms are clenched firmly to your chest as you shudder. 

“You can _relax_ , Mama,” the Joxter calls out to you. You hate him. You hate him so, so much. How could he conspire with a monster? How he could allow something like this to happen to you? 

“Yeah, Mama. Relax. It’s fun.” Bendy’s voice is much closer - out of sheer terror, your eyes spring open and you see it standing between your legs, smirking. Now that you’re sitting down, it’s taller than you, and the lanterns form a strange gold-ish aura around it. Happy kneels nearby, eyes manic and forever fixed on Bendy. 

You moan, and lean as far away from that _thing_ as the ink will allow.

Still it reaches out and drags the tips of its fingers over your cheek. Over the slices that the Joxter had made. 

The Joxter comments, “I think dear Mama is a touch speciesist. Willing to make love to Snufkins and Joxters, but not demons. Horrible, isn’t it?”

Bendy leans nearer. For a second, you’re terrified it’s going to kiss you. Instead, it whispers, “I don’t know what Jox sees in ya.”

Absurdly, tears well in your eyes. You wish you were never born. “Kill me,” you sob so softly it’s a mere breath more than words. “Y-you don’t even like me. Kill me, please.” Hot tears are streaming down your face and you can’t even explain exactly why. Maybe because you already know its answer. 

“Jox doesn’t want me to. He likes ya, Mama.”

“ _K-kill me_ ,” you beg. If anyone in this awful place has that power, it’s this monster. 

“What did I just say?” he hisses. “Jox wants ya alive.”

You’re beginning to hyperventilate. “H-he doesn’t have any c-control over y-you. Th-this is y-your s-story.” It’s hysterical that Bendy ever pretends otherwise. “Y-you decide… who l-lives or dies.”

Bendy caresses your cheek. Its next words are so, so low that even your own ears barely catch it. “All right, you got me. But don’t let Jox know that. Our lil secret.” You see a wink before Bendy kneels down in front of you. His head dips, while his fingers pry open your pants. 

Bile rises in your throat when his mouth takes in your flaccid length. 

“Relax,” the Joxter coos. Then suddenly his warmth is beside you, his paws stroking your whiskers. 

You wince; flinch away, but he’s persistent. You keep your eyes firmly shut as you freely cry, your nose clogging with snot and your cheeks wet, your face hot and swollen. 

You can’t enjoy this; there’s no way you can enjoy this. But biological imperative overrules your own emotions. Bendy sets a rhythm (you clench your teeth to avoid the impulse to vomit), and you despise the fact it is, as the Joxter promised, very skilled. 

“There,” the Joxter murmurs. “Just relax. You can enjoy yourself, dear.” His paws twine in your whiskers again. 

No. No, no. You mewl pointlessly, squirm as if you’re going to get up. Bendy’s hands force your hips down with a strength greater than any mumrik. It swallows around you, timed far too well with the Joxter’s whisker stroking. The next noise that emerges from your throat can’t be mistaken for anything but a moan. You tense, writhe again. You don’t want to like this. 

“Shhh,” the Joxter’s breath sighs over your ear. His voice is rich, faintly raspy but purring. “Easy,” he soothes. “You’re still tense, my beloved. Relax every muscle… You deserve to feel good.”

A slick tongue laves on the underside of your cock. Its forked points brush along the ridges of your head, and unconsciously, your hips chase the sensation. 

“There, that’s it,” the Joxter praises. 

You huff a hot breath. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think. Bendy dips down again, and every inch of you is enveloped in wet tightness. 

“Just like that.” The Joxter’s fingers play through your whiskers like a harp. Your whiskers twitch; you shiver. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Whether you like it or not, your thighs and stomach are tensing; you begin to buck your hips with the rhythm of Bendy’s sucking.

“You carry such stress,” the Joxter is murmuring while you pant, your motions becoming jerky and desperate. “This is something you've greatly needed, hmm?”

Your climax rips through you. Bendy doesn’t stop swallowing, and a strangled cry tears from you. Your back arches; you see stars. It’s probably the longest climax you've ever had, and you’re left slumped, winded and tingly from head to toe. 

You don’t want to come back to reality. But inevitably, you do, and a sick feeling settles deep in your gut. You just came in that monster’s mouth. 

“Not so hard now, was it?” The Joxter teases. “Only you were _quite_ hard!”

Your eyes drift open in time to see Bendy grab Happy aggressively by the head, press his flat face close, and then spit all of your load into Happy’s mouth. 

Happy wails and flings himself away, choking, while Bendy springs up, cackling maniacally. “Gotcha, Happy!"

Nauseous, you look away. 

The Joxter nuzzles you, and litters kisses along your sweaty neck. “I’m delighted you got to experience intimacy with Bendy,” he tells you, a streak of wetness along your neck letting you know he’s moved on to licking you. “Exquisite, isn’t it? And now you can forgive me, well and truly! I do love happy endings.”


End file.
